PN 
2287 

15 


0 
0 


^^^^^mmA 


^Kf^ 


Wi& 


N  McCULLOUGH. 


Wm^mW; 


m. 


• 


(   \ 


C-         _       ,  A 

SAN  DIEGO 


J 


This  book,  In  Memory  of  John  McCullough,  was 
printed  from  type,  at  The  De  Vinne  Press,  and  the 
edition  is  strictly  hmited  to  five  hundred  copies.  No 
more  will  be  made. 

W.  W. 


IN  MEMORY 


OF 


JOHN   McCULLOUGH 


* 


"Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace. 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 
While  the  stars  bum,  the  moons  increase. 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll." 

TENNYSON. 


^ 


NEW-YORK 

THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 

1889 


TO 

WILLIAM   M.  CONNER 

IN     LIFE     AND     IN     DEATH     THE 

AFFECTIONATE    AND    DEVOTED 

FRIEND     OF 

goftn  a^cCuUouglft 

THIS    MEMORIAL    OF    THE     LOVED 

AND    LAMENTED    ACTOR    IS 

HEARTILY     DEDICATED 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Life  of  McCullough  . . .   >  C    9 

>BY  William  Winter-? 
Tribute  to  McCullough  >  (23 

Funeral  Oration  by  Henry  Edwards 37 

The  McCullough  Monument 47 

Address  by  W.  F.  Johnson 52 

Oration  by  Steele  Mackaye 55 

Elegy  by  William  Winter 60 

Subscribers  to  McCullough  Monument 65 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE 
LIFE  OF  JOHN  McCULLOUGH.* 

• 
By  William  Winter. 

• 

JOHN  McCULLOUGH  was  born  at  Blakes,  near 
Coleraine,  Londonderry,  on  the  seacoast  of  Ire- 
land, on  November  14, 1832, —  the  year  that  is  memo- 
rable in  this  century  for  its  association  with  the  death  of 
great  men.  His  parents  were  situated  in  humble  cir- 
cumstances and  were  poor.  His  father,  James  Mc- 
Cullough,  was  a  "  small  farmer."  His  mother,  Mary, 
died  in  1844,  leaving  her  son  John,  then  a  lad  of  twelve, 
and  three  daughters,  Jane,  Mary,  and  Elizabeth.  Their 
father  was  unable  to  provide  for  these  children,  and 
shortly  after  the  mother's  death  they  were  obliged  to 

*  See  "  Actors  and  Actresses  of  Great  Britain  and  the  United 
States,"  edited  by  Brander  Matthews  and  Laurence  Hutton.  Five 
volumes.  Published  by  Messrs.  Cassell  &  Company,  London 
and  New  York. 


lO 


3;oJ)n  a^€u«oiigf)» 


seek  their  fortune  in  America.  In  the  spring  of  1847 
John  and  his  sister  Jane  came  to  this  country,  and 
having  a  cousin,  named  John  McCuUough,  in  Phila- 
delphia, they  proceeded  to  that  city,  where,  walking  in 
Front  Street,  young  John  saw  the  name  of  his  relative 
upon  a  sign,  and  entering  the  house  claimed  kindred 
there  and  was  acknowledged.  This  cousin  was  a  chair- 
maker,  and  in  the  business  of  chair-making  John 
McCullough  was  now  employed.  His  father  and  the 
sisters  Mary  and  Elizabeth  followed  to  America  shortly 
after  this  time.  The  father,  an  unsuccessful  man,  but 
independent  in  spirit,  worked  all  the  rest  of  his  life  as 
a  farmer  in  the  neighborhood  of  Philadelphia,  seeming 
to  prefer  an  humble  station,  and  declining  to  accept 
aid,  even  from  his  son,  in  the  days  of  prosperity  which 
eventually  arrived.  His  death  occurred  at  Moorestown, 
Burlington  county.  New  Jersey,  in  1878.  He  is  remem- 
bered as  a  small,  thin  man,  who  spoke  with  a  heavy 
brogue.  He  did  not  maintain  intimate  relations  with  his 
children.  He  was  a  faithful  worker  and  an  honest  man, 
but  he  had  no  ambition,  and  he  was  of  a  reticent 
and  inoperative  character.  These  ancestral  peculiari- 
ties are  to  be  noted  for  whatever  they  may  happen 
to  signify.  The  sisters  of  John  McCullough  were 
married  in  America.  Elizabeth,  his  favorite  sister, 
became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Thomas  Young,  and  died  at 
Dunmore,  Pennsylvania,  in  1869.  Mary  became  the 
wife  of  Mr.  James  Smith,  and  died  at  Statington,  in 
the  same  State.  Jane  was  married  to  Mr.  John  Wirth, 
and   is  a  resident  of  Dunmore.     John    McCullough, 


3[oftn  09cCu!lougl|» 


II 


shortly  after  he  came  to  Philadelphia,  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Miss  Letitia  McCIair,  daughter  of  Mr. 
Samuel  McClair,  of  Germantown,  and  to  her  he  was 
married  April  8, 1849.  Two  children  were  born  of  this 
marriage — James  McCullough,  July  4,  1850,  and 
William  F.  Johnson  McCullough,  December  2,  i860. 
The  latter  died  on  February  25,  i886.  This  second 
son  was  named  for  a  friend  who  knew  McCullough 
throughout  the  struggles  of  his  early  manhood,  and 
stood  by  him  through  all  vicissitudes  till  the  last  of 
"  difference  and  decay." 

When  John  McCullough,  a  youth  of  fifteen,  came  to 
America  he  could  read,  but  he  could  not  write.  He 
had  received  no  education,  and  he  was  in  ignorance 
of  literature  and  art.  Dying  thirty-eight  years  later 
(1885),  he  had  become  a  man  of  large  and  varied 
mental  acquirements,  a  considerable  scholar  in  the 
dramatic  profession,  and  the  most  conspicuous  heroic 
actor  of  his  time  on  the  American  stage.  Such  a  career, 
beginning  in  obscure  and  ignorant  penury  and  ending 
in  culture,  honorable  eminence,  prosperity,  and  fame, 
is  extraordinary,  and  in  dramatic  annals  it  makes 
John  McCullough  a  memorable  name. 

No  ancestor  of  his  was  ever  upon  the  stage.  Dra- 
matic faculty,  however,  is  one  of  the  peculiar  attributes 
of  the  Irish  race.  In  McCullough  it  was  developed  by 
the  accident  of  his  meeting  with  a  "  stage-struck " 
workman  in  the  shop  of  the  Philadelphia  chair-maker. 
This  person,  whose  "  spoutings  "  and  whose  general 
vagaries  had  at  first  been  suggestive  of  lunacy,  made 


12  5[oftn  !3r^€iinouglj» 

him  acquainted  with  the  tragedy  of  "  Richard  the 
Third " ;  stimulated  in  him  a  taste  for  reading  Shak- 
spere ;  acquainted  him  with  the  delights  of  rehearsal ; 
introduced  him  to  a  theatrical  society;  and  finally 
took  him  to  the  theater  itself  The  first  dramatic  per- 
formance that  he  witnessed  was,  according  to  his 
own  recollection,  a  performance  of  Shiel's  tragedy  of 
"  The  Apostate,"  in  the  old  Arch-Street  Theater,  Phila- 
delphia. From  this  time  onward  he  read  with  avidity 
every  play  that  he  could  obtain,  and,  without  the 
distinct  intention  of  becoming  an  actor, — probably 
with  no  view  whatever  to  the  future,  but  only  from 
natural  relish  for  this  pursuit, —  devoted  his  life  and 
thought  to  the  study  of  acting.  One  of  his  first  steps 
toward  the  stage  taken  at  this  period  was  his  affiliation 
with  "  The  Boothenian  Dramatic  Association,"  of 
Philadelphia,  a  local  club  which  held  meetings  and 
gave  performances  in  the  fourth  story  of  an  abandoned 
warehouse,  once  a  sugar  refinery,  and  of  which  the 
principal  spirit  was  Mr.  Lemuel  R.  Shewell,  in  later  years 
an  actor  well  known  throughout  the  cities  on  the  eastern 
seaboard  of  America.  McCuUough  took  lessons  in 
elocution  from  Mr.  Lemuel  White,  a  teacher  of  this 
art;  and  at  the  house  of  this  gentleman  he  became 
acquainted  with  various  friends  from  whom  he  received 
not  only  sympathy  but  instruction,  and  through  whose 
kindly  and  judicious  efforts  he  obtained  substantially 
all  the  education  it  was  ever  his  lot  to  enjoy.  His 
experience  at  this  time  led  him  to  branches  of  learning 
apart  from  the  stage.     One  of  the  books  that  he  read 


gioijn  a^cCuHougfj,  13 


was  "  Chambers's  Encyclopaedia  of  English  Literature," 
and  in  less  than  a  month  he  had  absorbed  the  whole  of 
it,  becoming  so  familiar  with  its  contents  that  he  could 
descant  on  the  British  authors  as  if  he  had  been  trained 
for  nothing  else  —  so  eager  was  his  zeal  for  knowledge 
and  so  retentive  was  the  memory  in  which  he  stored  it. 
McCuUough's  theatrical  career,  beginning  in  1857 
and  ending  in  1884,  covered  a  period  of  twenty-seven 
years.  His  first  engagement  was  made  at  the  Arch- 
Street  Theater,  Philadelphia,  under  the  management  of 
William  Wheatley  and  John  Drew,  and  his  first  appear- 
ance there  was  made  on  August  15,  1857,  as  Thomas 
in  "  The  Belle's  Stratagem."  His  rise  in  the  dramatic 
profession  was  gradual.  In  the  early  days  of  the 
American  stage  it  was  more  difficult  to  win  position 
than  it  is  in  these  times  of  speculative  theatrical 
management,  when  all  the  arts  of  advertising  are 
pressed  into  the  business  of  manufacturing  fame. 
Every  step  of  the  way  had  then  to  be  made  with  toil- 
some effort.  There  were  many  obstacles  to  be  sur- 
mounted and  many  hardships  to  be  endured.  The 
histories  of  such  actors  as  Cooper,  Forrest,  Booth,  A. 
A.  Addams,  E.  L.  Davenport,  and  Jefferson  teach  the 
same  lesson  of  persistent  effort  and  of  patience  under 
privation.  McCuUough,  in  his  quest  of  professional 
recognition,  had  the  usual  trying  experience;  but 
he  was  in  earnest,  and  he  proved  the  integrity  of 
his  talents,  the  force  of  his  character,  and  the  sincerity 
of  his  devotion  by  a  steadfast  adherence  to  that  serv- 
ice of  the  drama  which  was  the  purpose  of  his  life.  His 


14  Sol^n  flr^€uftoiigi)» 

novitiate  at  the  Arch-Street  Theater  lasted  until  the 
summer  of  i860,  when  E.  L,  Davenport,  at  that 
time  manager  of  the  Howard  Athenaeum,  in  Boston, 
engaged  him  at  that  theater,  where  he  remained  for  one 
season — that  of  1860-61.  In  the  ensuing  season  he 
was  back  again  in  Philadelphia,  engaged  at  the  Walnut- 
Street  Theater,  under  the  management  of  Mrs.  Garret- 
son.  Here  he  was  when  presently  he  attracted  the 
notice  of  Edwin  Forrest,  who  chanced  to  be  in  need 
of  an  actor  to  play  the  parts  second  to  his  own,  and 
who  procured  his  release  from  Mrs.  Garretson  and 
gave  him  an  engagement  for  leading  business.  This 
was  "  the  tide  which  taken  at  the  flood  leads  on  to 
fortune."  McCullough's  first  appearance  with  Forrest 
was  made  at  Boston  in  October,  1 861,  in  the  character 
of  Pythias.  His  line  of  parts  now  included  Laertes., 
Macduff,  lago,  Edgar,  Richtnond,  Icilhis,  and  Tittts. 
He  cooperated  with  Forrest  also  in  those  plays  that 
were  the  exclusive  property  of  that  tragedian — in 
"Metamora,"  "The  Gladiator,"  "Jack  Cade,"  and 
"The  Broker  of  Bogota."  In  later  times,  when  For- 
rest revived  "  Coriolanus  "  (November,  1863,  at  Niblo's 
Garden,  New  York),  McCullough  acted  Cominius. 
From  the  time  of  his  engagement  with  Forrest  he  had 
a  clear  field  and  he  advanced  in  the  open  sunshine  of 
success. 

An  incident  connected  with  his  early  life  upon  the 
stage  is  mentioned  as  significant  of  his  solid  character 
and  inveterate  purpose.  He  has  more  than  once  re- 
ferred to  it  in  the  hearing  of  the  present  writer,  as 


gtojn  a^cCuUougt),  15 


having  had  a  marked  influence  upon  his  subsequent 
fortunes.  While  yet  a  youth,  at  the  Howard  Athe- 
naeum, he  was  suddenly  summoned  to  play,  at  short 
notice,  an  important  and  formidable  part.  Davenport, 
then  the  star,  had  been  taken  ill,  and  could  not  appear. 
The  character  was  Robert  Landry,  in  "The  Dead 
Heart,"  one  of  the  longest  parts  in  the  modern  roman- 
'tic  drama.  McCuUough  was  directed  at  noon  to  be 
in  readiness  to  come  on  and  read  it  at  night.  He 
took  the  part  home,  committed  the  whole  of  it  to  mem- 
ory within  a  few  hours,  and  without  previous  explana- 
tion to  anybody  in  the  theater  he  went  on  at  night, 
letter  perfect,  and  played  Robert  Landry  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  a  hit.  These  facts  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  Forrest  and  aroused  that  interest  in  the  young  actor 
which  soon  afterward  took  a  practical  form. 

McCullough's  professional  hfe  after  he  joined  Edwin 
Forrest  was  not  more  eventful  than  is  usual  with  a 
leading  man  in  a  theatrical  stock  company.  He  trav- 
eled through  the  country  season  after  season,  playing 
seconds  to  the  more  famous  tragedian,  and  constantly 
gaining  in  experience  and  popularity.  At  this  time  he 
was  much  under  the  influence  of  the  style  of  Forrest, 
and  indeed  he  habitually  imitated  the  manner  of  his 
leader.  This  was  the  weakness  of  many  young  actors 
of  that  period,  and  perhaps  it  was  not  easily  to  be 
avoided  by  an  actor  who  lived  and  labored  in  constant 
association  with  that  strong  and  singular  personality. 
In  after  time,  however,  McCuUough  entirely  discarded 
this  fault;  but  he  could  at  will  give  astonishing  imita- 


i6  9io6n  !3r9c€unoiigf)» 


tions  of  Forrest's  peculiarities,  and  this  he  sometimes 
did,  with  humorous  effect.  In  1866  he  accompanied 
Forrest  in  a  trip  to  California,  where  he  was  received 
with  uncommon  favor,  and  where  he  found  many 
friends.  Many  of  these  friends  were  among  the 
wealthy  citizens  of  San  Francisco,  and  he  had  not 
long  been  in  that  city  before  it  was  proposed  by  them 
that  he  should  remain  there  as  the  manager  of  the 
California  Theater,  in  partnership  with  his  distinguished 
contemporary  Lawrence  Barrett,  This  plan  was  sanc- 
tioned by  Forrest;  the  enterprise  was  carried  into 
effect,  and  McCullough  remained  on  the  Pacific  coast 
for  eight  successive  seasons.  The  history  of  the  Cali- 
fornia Theater  makes  a  brilliant  chapter  in  his  career. 
Plays  were  mounted  there  with  magnificence,  the  ripe 
scholarship  of  Mr.  Barrett  proved  a  signal  service,  and 
both  Barrett  and  McCullough  filled  engagements  of 
uncommon  profit.  Their  partnership  lasted  until  No- 
vember, 1870,  when  it  was  dissolved  by  the  amicable 
withdrawal  of  Mr.  Barrett,  and  McCullough  remained 
alone  in  the  management.  It  was  in  the  Cahfomia 
Theater  that  he  first  acted  Virginius,  and  one  by  one 
added  to  his  repertory  the  other  great  parts  to  which 
he  had  formerly  played  seconds  under  the  leadership  of 
Forrest.  He  remained  connected  with  the  California 
Theater  until  1875,  when,  in  the  ruin  of  the  banker 
Ralston,  he  suffered  a  heavy  loss  which  led  to  his 
relinquishment  of  that  institution.  It  never  was  his 
ambition  to  be  a  theatrical  manager.  At  the  time  he 
lost  his  voice,  in  Boston  (1876),  he  expressed  to  a  friend, 


gjoljn  ai^cCuHougf)*  17 


in  touching  language,  his  grave  apprehension  of  being 
compelled  to  relinquish  his  career  as  an  actor,  and  sink 
to  the  level  of  theatrical  management. 

On  May  4,  1874,  McCullough  made  his  first  appear- 
ance as  a  star  actor  in  New  York,  coming  forward  as 
Spartacus,  in  "  The  Gladiator."  He  acted  at  Booth's 
Theater  until  May  30th.  He  was  seen  as  Richelieu  and 
Hamlet,  and  he  took  part,  as  Philip  Faulcotibridge,  in  a 
revivalof"  King  John,"  which  was  effected  on  May  25th. 
At  the  end  of  this  engagement  he  returned  to  CaHfornia 
to  attend  to  the  interests  of  his  theater  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, but  in  the  course  of  the  summer  he  came  back, 
and  when  Mr.  Boucicault's  new  play  of  "  Belle  Lamar  " 
was  brought  out  at  Booth's  Theater,  August  10, 
1874,  he  acted  in  it  as  Colonel  Bligh.  This  was  under 
the  management  of  Messrs.  Jarrett  &  Palmer.  On 
September  14th  these  managers  produced  an  altered 
version  of  Otvvay's  tragedy  of  "  Venice  Preserved," 
made  by  Mr.  Boucicault,  and  in  this  McCullough  acted 
Pierre — a  character  that  was  always  a  favorite  with 
him.  On  the  19th  he  took  a  benefit  and  said  farewell, 
and  he  did  not  appear  in  New  York  again  till  April  2, 
1877.  The  interval  was  passed  in  the  fulfillment  of 
ambitious, laborious,  and  lucrative  engagements  in  many 
other  cities.  In  the  fall  of  1874  he  went  on  the  West- 
ern circuit  and  visited  New  Orleans,  proceeding  thence 
to  San  Francisco  in  December  and  reappearing  at  the 
California  Theater,  where  in  an  engagement  of  four 
weeks  he  drew  $36,000.  He  remained  in  San  Fran- 
cisco till  the  autumn  of  1875,  when  he  once  more  came 


i8  gjoljn  <Il?c€unoiig|). 

North,  and  this  time  he  met  with  extraordinarj'  suc- 
cess in  Washington,  where,  on  December  12th,  at  the 
National  Theater,  a  special  demonstration  was  made 
in  his  honor,  and  his  performance  of  Virgifiiiis  was 
attended  by  the  President  of  the  United  States  and  the 
cabinet.  At  Christmas  that  year  he  was  in  New  Or- 
leans, acting  at  the  Varieties  Theater,  under  the  man- 
agement of  Clifton  W,  Tayleure.  In  February,  1876, 
he  had  great  success  in  Boston,  where  the  accident  of 
a  sudden  illness,  which  temporarily  deprived  him  of  his 
voice,  strongly  attracted  toward  him  the  public  sym- 
pathy, and  where,  on  February  9th,  playing  Virginius 
for  the  first  time  in  that  city,  he  gained  some  of  the 
brightest  laurels  of  his  life.  Later  he  played  a  round 
of  parts  at  Philadelphia,  in  the  Arch-Street  Theater.  On 
March  27,  1876,  he  reappeared  at  San  Francisco 
as  Virginius,  and  was  welcomed  with  enthusiasm. 
This  was  the  season  of  Edwin  Booth's  famous  South- 
ern tour,  which,  under  Mr.  John  T.  Ford's  manage- 
ment, lasted  from  January  3d  to  March  3d,  and 
thereafter  was  continued  by  Mr.  Booth  himself,  who 
first  acted  in  Chicago  and  then  went  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, where  McCullough  gave  him  a  royal  reception, 
and,  in  order  to  augment  his  success,  acted  in  con- 
junction with  him,  playing  such  parts  as  De  Mauprat 
and  Rich?)wnd.  This  is  recorded  as  the  most  remu- 
nerative dramatic  engagement  that  ever  was  played 
on  the  American  stage.  In  January,  1877,  McCul- 
lough played  a  round  of  parts  in  Chicago,  and  in 
February  he  appeared  at  the  Boston  Museum,  where 


3i0{)n  a^cCunoiigfj*  19 

in  two  weeks  he  drew  so  largely  that  his  share  of  profits 
was  $2800.  The  theater  also  received  a  large  profit ; 
and  this  was  noted  at  the  time  as  the  most  successful 
engagement  that  had  been  filled  in  that  house  for 
many  years.  On  April  2d  he  came  again  to  New 
York,  and  it  was  now  seen  that  he  had  made  surprising 
advancement  in  his  art.  He  appeared  at  Booth's  Thea- 
ter as  Virginius,  and  after  seven  performances  of  this 
part,  in  an  engagement  lasting  till  April  27th,  he  per- 
formed likewise  Richelieu^  Richard  III.,  Othello,  lago, 
Spaiiacus,  Metamora,  and  King  Lear.  Mr.  Frederick 
Warde  played  seconds.  Mme.  Ponisi  enacted  Emilia. 
Miss  Maud  Granger  appeared  as  Virgitiia  and  Desde- 
ftiona.  Mr.  Warde  distinguished  himself  as  Icilius.  Mr. 
J.  H.  Taylor  presented  Dentatus.  For  his  benefit,  on 
April  27th,  McCullough  acted  Othello,  and  at  the  close 
of  the  performance  a  silver  laurel  wreath,  the  gift  of 
New  York  friends,  was  publicly  presented  to  him  on 
the  stage,  and  was  received  by  him  with  a  speech  of 
singular  manliness  and  delicate  taste.  Tributes  of  this 
kind,  indeed,  were  frequent  incidents  of  his  career,  for 
no  man  ever  had  a  larger  circle  of  affectionate  friends. 
An  occasion  of  this  kind  had  happened  earlier  in  1877, 
on  March  13th,  when  at  the  Southern  Hotel  in  St. 
Louis  many  leading  citizens  of  that  place  gave  a 
public  banquet  to  honor  him,  and  congratulations 
flowed  to  him  from  every  part  of  the  land.  On 
February  9,  1878,  he  received  the  compliment  of  a 
banquet  from  the  Lotos  Club  of  New  York.  On  No- 
vember 9,  1878,  he  was  the  honored  guest  of  citizens 


20  giojit  9[^CuftOU0|), 

of  Washington,  at  a  public  banquet  at  Willard's  Hotel, 
at  which  General  W.  T.  Sherman  presided,  and  Mr. 
James  G.  Blaine  was  the  principal  orator. 

At  the  St.  Louis  festival  the  following  inscriptions 
were  di.splayed  upon  the  printed  programme  of  exer- 
cises : 

September,  1873. 

Untried  and  new  we  saw  thy  rising  star 

And  hailed  the  brightness  of  its  early  rays ; 

The  light  discerned,  the  promise  from  afar, 

Greeting  its  glimmer  through  the  morning  haze. 

January,  1875. 

Brighter  it  grew  as  we  beheld  its  rise. 

Foretelling  all  the  greatness  that  should  be, 

And  watched  its  progress  with  our  partial  eyes, 
Assured  that  it  must  rule  the  galaxy. 

March,  1877. 

Full-orbed  and  brilliant  now  thy  glories  shine, 
Illuming  all  the  Drama's  wide  expanse ; 

Thou  hast  thy  place  secured  —  the  zenith  thine  — 
The  whole  world's  space  included  in  thy  glance. 

Messages  of  kindness,  on  this  same  occasion,  reached 
the  actor  from  Edwin  Adams,  Lilian  Adelaide  Neil- 


5[oftn  !tir9cCunou0lj, 


21 


son,  Lawrence  Barrett,  William  Winter,  Edwin  Booth, 
and  other  cherished  friends.  The  Knights  of  St.  Pat- 
rick sent  a  scroll,  inscribed  as  follows  : 

St.    Louis,    March    13,    1877. —  Salve  et  vale!    The 
Knights  of  St.  Patrick  to  John  McCullough,  tragedian  : 

All  hail  to  the  Actor  whose  genius  sublime 
Interprets  the  Poet  who  wrote  for  all  time ; 
While  Hamlet,  Othello,  and  Lear,  the  discrowned. 
Make  the  stage  with  the  woes  of  the  Drama  resound, 
The  name  of  McCullough  shall  blend  with  the  strain 
And  never  shall  history  rend  them  in  twain. 

On  October  12,  1877,  performances  for  the  benefit 
of  Edwin  Adams,  then  on  his  death-bed,  took  place 
at  the  Academy  of  Music  in  New  York,  and  McCul- 
"lough  participated  in  them.  A  close  friendship  had 
for  many  years  subsisted  between  Adams  and  himself, 
and  indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  two  human 
beings  more  accordant  in  generosity  of  temperament 
and  gentleness  of  life.  Adams  died  on  October  28, 
1877,  and  it  was  McCullough  who  selected  the  Shak- 
sperian  lines  that  are  inscribed  on  his  grave-stone  at 
Philadelphia  —  lines  that  are  as  expressive  for  the  one 
friend  as  for  the  other  : 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  '*  This  was  a  man.  " 


22 


gjoijn  !3t^4runoii0ij. 


McCuUough  took  part  also  in  the  performance 
for  the  benefit  of  John  Brougham,  which  was  given 
in  the  Academy  of  Music,  New  York,  on  January 
17,  1878,  playing  the  Moor  in  the  third  act  of 
"  Othello."  On  January  21st,  that  year,  he  performed 
at  the  Park  Theater,  Brooklyn,  and  on  February  7th  he 
came  out  at  the  Boston  Theater  as  Coriolanus.  His 
third  star  engagement  in  New  York  began  on  April 
22,  1878,  at  the  Grand  Opera  House,  and  in  its  third 
week  he  signalized  the  occasion  by  acting  Lucius 
Brutus  in  "  The  Fall  of  Tarquin,"  for  the  first  time  in 
the  capital.  In  the  spring  of  this  year  his  professional 
affairs  were  placed  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  William 
M.  Conner,  who  proved  to  him  an  excellent  manager 
and  a  true  friend.  On  March  13th  he  appeared 
at  Syracuse,  giving  seven  successive  performances 
there,  and  receiving  $500  for  each  performance. 
The  receipts  for  the  one  week  were  $4200.  The 
receipts  on  his  benefit  night,  when  he  played  Virgifiius, 
were  $1253.  It  used  to  please  him  to  recall,  as  a  con- 
trast with  this  success  and  as  a  sign  of  growing  popu- 
larity, that  when  first  he  acted  in  Syracuse  the  house 
contained  only  $128.  In  May  he  came  again  to  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  and  this  time  he  acted  a  round 
of  parts,  including  Kmg  Lear,  Damo7i^  and  Lucius 
Brutus.  On  May  2 2d  he  appeared  at  the  Boston 
Theater,  in  association  with  Miss  Mary  Anderson, 
acting  Claude  Melnotte  to  her  Pauline;  this  perform- 
ance being  for  a  benefit.  On  May  24th  he  was  seen  at 
Booth's  Theater  as  Brutus  in  "  Julius  Caesar,"  a  part 


3[ofjn  a^cCuHoujErt).  23 


in  which  his  acting  was  beautiful,  and  which  he  played 
on  this  occasion  for  the  benefit  Mr.  F.  B.  Warde.  He 
took  part  in  another  benefit  on  June  3d,  at  Washington, 
and  on  September  5th  in  still  another,  at  the  Fifth- 
Avenue  Theater,  New  York,  where  he  acted  Itigoniar 
to  Miss  Anderson's  Parihenia.  This  was  to  help  the 
plague-stricken  people  of  the  South,  then  suffering  the 
ravages  of  pestilence.  His  next  important  engage- 
ment in  New  York  began  on  December  i6th  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  where  he  revived  "  Coriolanus." 
On  February  3,  1879,  at  the  Boston  Theater,  he 
effected  a  revival  of  the  old  play  of  "  Pizarro,"  and 
acted  Rolla,  performing  this  old-fashioned  part  with 
great  dignity  in  the  declamatory  portions  and  with 
picturesque  vigor  and  effective  pathos  in  the  closing 
scene.  During  his  stay  at  Boston  he  appeared  as 
Brutus^  Virginitis,  Richard  III.,  and  Cardinal  IVolsey. 
From  Boston  he  went  to  New  Orleans.  In  the  sum- 
mer he  rested  for  a  while  at  Saratoga.  In  November 
he  acted  at  the  National  Theater  in  Washington,  and 
again  had  great  success.  When  this  year  drew  toward 
a  close  he  was  roaming  through  the  towns  of  New 
England.  At  Christmas  he  was  in  Brooklyn,  and  he 
there  brought  forward  "  The  Honeymoon,"  and  acted 
Diike  Aranza.  Two  performances  of  Spartacus  given 
there  by  him  on  Christmas  Day  cleared  $4720.  Such 
facts  serve  to  show  the  steady  and  sure  increase  of  his 
popularity. 

During  the  season  of  1879-80  McCullough  was  very 
prosperous.     Before  it  was  half  over  he  had  cleared 


24  2[of)n  ai^Culiougf), 

upward  of  $20,000.  During  the  first  three  months  of 
1880  he  traveled  on  the  Southern  circuit,  and  went 
into  Texas,  and  subsequently  he  went  as  far  West  as 
Omaha.  On  March  6th  he  received  public  honors  at 
Memphis,  and  he  presented  a  standard  to  the  Chicka- 
saw Guards,  of  which  military  organization  he  was  an 
honorary  member.  On  May  31st  he  acted  at  Wallack's 
Theater,  New  York,  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  W.  R. 
Floyd.  On  June  5th  he  sailed  aboard  the  Briiafinic  for 
England — Mr.  Sothern,  Mr.  Raymond,  and  Miss 
Rose  Coghlan  being  passengers  by  the  same  ship. 
This  was  Sothern's  final  farewell  to  America.  It  was 
on  this  trip  that  McCullough  paid  a  visit  to  his 
birthplace,  where  he  was  received  with  interest  and 
kindness.  While  in  London  he  made  arrangements 
for  acting  there  in  the  season  of  188 1.  He  sailed  from 
Liverpool  August  5th,  and  on  arriving  home  he  began 
the  new  season,  September  5th,  at  Utica.  From  No- 
vember 15th  to  December  nth  he  was  acting  at  the 
Fifth- Avenue  Theater,  New  York.  For  his  benefit,  De- 
cember loth,  he  played  Lucius  Brutus.  There  were 
837  persons  in  the  gallery  alone,  and  the  receipts  that 
night  were  $1637.  In  his  speech  before  the  curtain 
McCullough  said :  "  Whatever  may  become  of  me, 
whether  I  rise  or  sink,  it  is  a  comfort  to  reflect  that 
the  noble  art  of  which  I  am  an  humble  representative 
will  remain  and  flourish  as  long  as  human  nature 
exists."  During  the  remainder  of  that  season  he  was 
in  the  West  and  South.  The  season  ended  on  April 
2,  1 88 1,  and  he  had  acted  in  thirty-four  cities.     On 


Slogn  3i?cCuHougS)»  25 


April  4th  he  received  the  tribute  of  a  public  ban- 
quet at  Delmonico's,  New  York,  at  which  a  poem 
was  read  by  William  Winter.  [This  poem  will  be 
found  in  the  present  volume,  at  page  ;^^.]  In  his 
speech  that  night  McCullough  said :  "  If  I  succeed  I 
shall  be  grateful,  but  not  unduly  elated.  If  I  fail,  I 
shall  not  be  soured  by  disappointment.  My  hope  is 
that  I  may  prove  myself  not  altogether  unworthy  of 
the  great  kindness  that  has  been  shown  toward  me  in 
America,  and  of  the  good-will  and  good  opinion  that 
have  been  so  touchingly  expressed  on  this  occasion." 
On  April  9th  he  sailed  for  England, and  on  April  i8th  he 
appeared  in  London,  at  Drury-Lane  Theater,  as  Vzr- 
gijims.  The  engagement  lasted  till  May  21st,  and  the 
tragedian  was  seen  in  Virginiiis  and  Othello.  His 
social  popularity  in  London  was  extraordinary,  but 
critical  opinion  divided  on  his  acting.  The  "  Tele- 
graph "  said  :  "  A  finer  representative  of  Virginius  the 
character  can  never  have  had."  In  his  farewell  speech 
McCullough  said:  "I  came  to  you  a  stranger,  and 
now  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  for  years.  You  have 
taught  me  the  significance  and  true  meaning  of  British 
fair-play."  He  returned  to  America  in  September  and 
began  the  season  of  1881-82  at  St.  Paul,  going  over 
much  the  same  ground  as  before.  On  November  14, 
1 88 1,  he  began  an  engagement  of  six  v/eeks  at  the 
Fifth- Avenue  Theater  as  Virginius.  "Ingomar"  was 
produced,  with  Miss  Kate  Forsythe  as  Virginia.  On 
November  29th  he  acted  King  Lear.  On  December 
8th,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Foe  Memorial,  he  played  at 


26  5[oJ)n  St^cCuHouglj, 


the  Union-Square  Theater,  New  York,  in  one  act  of 
"Richard  III."  On  December  12th  that  year,  at 
the  Fifth-Avenue  Theater,  New  York,  he  brought  out 
"  The  Bondman,"  a  tragic  play  by  Mr.  Lewis  Wingfield, 
on  the  subject  of  Jack  Cade's  rebeUion.  The  engage- 
ment ended  on  December  31st,  and  then  he  went 
on  still  another  long  tour  of  the  South  and  West.  On 
May  31,  1882,  he  appeared  at  the  Boston  Theater, 
in  association  with  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  acting  in 
"Ingomar,"  for  a  benefit.  His  regular  season,  of 
1882-83,  was  opened  at  St.  Paul,  September  4th,  and 
he  visited  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  and  other  Western  cities, 
and  came  to  the  Fifth- Avenue  Theater,  New  York,  on 
November  13th,  In  the  course  of  this  engagement 
he  was  seen  as  Master  Walter,  and  as  Hamlet, 
and  he  closed  it,  on  December  9th,  with  Damoti, 
proceeding  then,  by  way  of  Albany,  into  New  Eng- 
land, and  going  as  far  to  the  north-east  as  Portland. 
On  April  9,  1883,  he  made  his  reentrance  in  New 
York  at  Niblo's  Garden,  and  he  there  remained  till 
April  23d.  That  spring  he  began  to  show  signs  of 
serious  illness,  and  he  was  especially  depressed  and 
miserable  at  Cincinnati  during  the  Dramatic  Festi- 
val which  was  held  there,  April  29th  to  May  4th,  and  in 
the  course  of  which  he  enacted  Shakspere's  Brutus  and 
Othello,  and  Knowles's  Master  Walter.  On  May  7  th  he 
retired  to  the  residence  of  his  friend  John  Carson,  at 
Quincy,  III,  where  he  passed  some  time  in  a  gallant  but 
hopeless  struggle  against  the  encroachments  of  disease. 
At   this  time  he  appears  to  have  suspected  its  true 


3|ol)n  ar^cCuilougfj.  27 


nature,  and  his  suffering  was  great.  He  rallied,  how- 
ever, and  on  August  20,  1883,  he  entered  on  a  new 
professional  season  at  Denver.  At  Christmas  he  was 
acting  in  Philadelphia,  and  as  the  year  closed  he  seemed 
to  be  convalescent.  Early  in  January,  1884,  he  was 
acting  in  Boston,  and  on  March  3d  he  appeared  at  the 
Star  Theater,  New  York.  This  was  his  last  engage- 
ment there.  Three  weeks  of  it  were  devoted  to  Vir- 
ginius  and  Spartacus,  and  one  week  to  Brutus,  Othello, 
Spartacus,  Virginius,  and  Richard  III.  It  ended  on 
March  29th,  and  McCullough  ended  his  season  on 
April  5th  at  the  Novelty  Theater  in  WiUiamsburg.  It 
was  evident  then  to  those  who  saw  him  act  that  his 
powers  were  broken.  On  the  29th  of  June  he  sailed 
for  Germany,  seeking  relief  from  his  malady  at  the 
springs  of  Carlsbad,  but  the  expedition  was  fruitless. 
He  returned  by  way  of  England,  passing  a  few  days 
in  London.  It  was  evident  on  his  arrival  home  that 
his  mind  had  grown  feeble,  and  that  he  was  consider- 
ably advanced  upon  the  downward  road  to  death. 
He  resumed  his  work,  but  he  could  not  carry  it 
forward.  The  final  collapse  occurred  at  McVicker's 
Theater,  Chicago,  on  September  29,  1884,  and  he 
retired  forever  from  the  stage.  On  June  27,  1885, 
he  was  placed  in  a  private  lunatic  asylum  at  Bloom- 
ingdale,  N.  Y.,  where  he  remained  till  October 
25th,  when  he  was  removed  to  his  home  in  Phila- 
delphia. He  died  there  on  November  8,  1885, 
and  he  is  buried  in  Mount  Moriah  Cemetery  in 
that  city. 


28  9!o|)n  flu^cCunougj). 

The  following  is  a  list  of  the  parts  and  plays  that 
were  included  in  McCuUough's  repertory  : 

PARTS.  PLAYS. 

Virginius Virginius. 

Othello Othello. 

Lucius  Brutus The  Fall  of  Tarquin. 

Marcus  Brutus Julius  C^sar. 

lago Othello. 

Macbeth Macbeth. 

King  Lear King  Lear. 

Coriolanus Coriolanus. 

Spartacus The  Gladiator. 

Benedick Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Shylock Merchant  of  Venice. 

Peiruchio Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

Faulconbridge KiNG  John. 

Richard  III. Richard  III. 

Cardinal  Wolsey Henry  VIII. 

ILamlet Hamlet. 

Pierre Venice  Preserved. 

Richelieu Richelieu. 

Jack  Cade Jack  Cade. 

The  Stranger The  Stranger. 

St.  Pierre The  Wife. 

Damon Damon  and  Pythias. 

Metamora Metamora. 

Claude  Melnotte The  Lady  of  Lyons. 

Duke  Aranza The  Honeymoon. 

Ingomar    Ingomar. 

Rolla Pizarro. 

Alfred  Evelyn Money. 

Master  Walter The  Hunchback. 

Febro The  Broker  of  Bogota, 


3|of)n  a^CuHougf)*  29 


In  McCullough's  personal  character  the  qualities 
which  first  attracted  interest  were  modesty,  simplicity, 
and  manliness.  Animated  by  a  distinct  professional 
purpose  and  always  resolute  in  its  pursuit,  he  pos- 
sessed in  an  eminent  degree  the  calmness  of  a  man 
who  understands  himself  and  the  objects  of  his  life 
and  who  means  to  exercise  a  firm  and  wise  control 
over  the  inward  resources  of  his  nature  and  all  out- 
ward aids  to  his  career.  From  first  to  last  his  de- 
meanor toward  the  world  was  gentle  and  propitiatory. 
He  was  aware  of  the  deficiencies  of  his  education. 
He  knew  his  own  defects.  But  more  than  this,  he 
had  a  perfectly  distinct  perception  of  what  is  due  to 
others,  together  with  a  high  and  just  sense  of  the 
magnitude  of  the  dramatic  art,  the  difficulties  to  be 
conquered  in  its  pursuit,  and  the  nature  and  value  of 
success  in  its  service.  A  certain  sweet  humility  was 
natural  to  him.  He  never  vaunted  himself.  He  never 
was  unduly  exalted.  He  took  success,  as  he  took 
failure,  with  meekness.  This  was  not  an  affecta- 
tion, for  he  knew  that  his  powers  were  uncommon, 
and  he  was  fully  and  gladly  aware  of  the  great  tri- 
umphs that  he  had  achieved.  But  this  strain  of 
modesty  ran  through  his  conduct  because  it  was 
inherent  in  his  character.  He  knew  what  other 
actors  had  done,  and  he  knew  that  there  were  other 
heights  to  be  gained,  higher  than  any  that  had  been 
reached  by  him.  Allied  to  this  quality,  and  perhaps 
resultant  upon  it,  there  was  in  his  character  the  attri- 
bute of  thoroughness.     He  did  not  wish  merely  to  be 


30  gioftn  flt^Ciinougf). 


called  a  great  actor;  he  wished  to  be  a  great  actor; 
and,  acting  under  this  desire  and  purpose,  he  studied 
and  labored  at  all  times  to  make  the  utmost  that  could 
be  made  of  his  faculties  and  occasions.  He  left  noth- 
ing to  chance.  He  observed  every  detail.  He  con- 
sidered and  planned  every  step  of  his  way.  He  always 
knew  what  he  wished  to  accomplish  in  dramatic  art, 
and  he  always  had  in  his  mind  a  distinct  and  practical 
method  by  which  to  accomplish  it.  He  was  a  direct 
man  in  his  art  because  a  direct  man  in  his  nature. 
Persons  who  saw  him  upon  the  stage,  equally  with 
persons  who  were  brought  into  contact  with  him  in 
real  life,  were  invariably  impressed  with  the  truth  of  his 
temperament.  Experience  of  the  world,  indeed,  had 
taught  him  the  necessity  of  being  poHtic  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  affairs.  He  was  not  a  simpleton  —  he  was 
only  simple.  He  did  not  "  wear  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve  for  daws  to  peck  at ";  but  he  wore  his  heart  in 
his  bosom,  and  it  was  an  honest,  tender,  manly  heart, 
sympathetic  with  goodness,  resentful  of  evil,  charita- 
ble and  generous,  faithful  in  its  affection,  and  easily 
moved  to  pity  and  to  kindness.  Such  a  nature  offers 
no  complexities  for  analysis.  It  is  rooted  in  elemental 
principles  of  humanity  and  virtue.  Such  a  man  may 
make  errors,  may  commit  faults,  may  reveal  occasional 
weakness,  may  be  led  astray  by  passion ;  but  he 
remains  essentially  a  lovable  human  being,  and  he 
is  readily  and  rightly  understood.  McCullough  had 
this  fortune,  and  he  had  it  for  this  reason.  Wher- 
ever he  went  he  carried  this  charm  of  personal  worth. 


5[o|)n  a^tCulJougfj*  31 


and  he  found  instant  sympathy  and  kindness.  He 
was  naturally  cheerful.  His  rugged  health  and 
affluent  physical  strength  harmonized  with  his  tem- 
perament and  augmented  its  effect.  His  bearing  and 
movements  had  the  composure  that  comes  of  power. 
His  smile  was  equally  indicative  of  pleasure  in  life 
and  kindness  toward  others.  He  was  an  attractive 
man  to  children,  to  all  weak  or  helpless  persons,  to 
all  such  natures  as  lack  self-reliance  and  therefore  turn 
instinctively  toward  strength  and  sweetness.  He  had 
a  protective  air.  Safety  and  comfort  seemed  to  enter 
with  him  wherever  he  came.  He  was  a  sturdy,  smil- 
ing reality  of  beneficent  goodness,  and  his  presence 
encouraged  those  who  work  and  cheered  those  who 
suffer.  Whatever  of  policy  he  employed  in  the  con- 
duct of  life  was  not  craft;  it  was  the  prudence 
which  had  been  enforced  upon  him  by  the  monitions 
of  experience;  and  perhaps  had  he  used  more  of  this 
sort  of  policy,  had  he  guarded  and  fostered  his  own 
powers  and  interests  and  been  less  heedless  and 
lavish  of  resources  which  he  seemed  to  regard  as 
herculean  and  inexhaustible,  his  end  would  not  have 
come  so  soon,  nor  in  a  way  so  lamentable,  desolate, 
and  wretched. 

McCullough's  acting  was  essentially  the  flower  of  his 
character,  as  thus  denoted.  He  played  many  parts, 
but  the  parts  in  which  he  was  best  —  in  which  his  na- 
ture was  liberated  and  his  triumph  supreme  —  were  dis- 
tinctively those  which  rest  upon  the  basis  of  the  genial 
human  heart  and  proceed  in  the  realm  of  the  affections. 


32  5oj)n  St^cCuHougfj. 

He  displayed  artistic  resources,  intellectual  intention, 
and  sometimes  a  subtle  professional  skill  in  such 
characters  as  Hamlet  and  Richelieu;  but  he  never  was 
in  sympathy  with  them,  and  he  did  not  make  them  his 
own.  He  was  an  heroic  actor.  He  towered  into 
splendor  in  such  situations  as  are  provided  by  the  clos- 
ing scenes  in  Payne's  "  Brutus,"  the  Forum  scene  in 
"  Virginius,"  the  scaffold  scene  in  "  Damon  and  Py- 
thias." He  was  the  manly  friend,  to  whom  life  and  all 
the  possessions  of  the  world  are  nothing  when  weighed 
in  the  balance  against  fidelity  to  love.  He  was  the 
fond  and  tender  father,  whose  great  strength  became 
a  sweet  and  yielding  feebleness  in  the  presence  of  his 
gentle  daughter.  He  was  the  simple,  truthful,  affec- 
tionate, high-minded  man,  whose  soul  could  exist  only 
in  honor.  To  ideals  of  this  kind  he  gave  perfect  ex- 
pression, and  for  an  essential  nobleness  and  manliness 
such  as  stimulate  human  hearts  to  a  renewed  devotion 
to  duty  and  a  fervid  allegiance  to  high  ideals  of  char- 
acter and  conduct,  he  will  be  remembered  as  long  as 
anything  is  remembered  in  the  history  of  the  stage. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO 
JOHN  McCULLOUGH. 

• 

By  William  Winter. 

• 

READ  AT  A  FEAST  AT  DELMONICO'S,  NEW  YORK,  APRIL  4,  1881. 

I. 

LONG  hushed  is  the  harp  that  his  glory  had  spoken,  * 
Long  stilled  is  the  heart  that  could   summon   its 
strain ; 
Now  its  chords  are  all  silent,  or  tuneless,  or  broken. 
What  touch  can  awaken  its  music  again  ! 

2. 

Ah,  the  breeze  in  the  green  dells  of  Erin  is  blowing  ! 

If  not  her  great  bard  yet  her  spirit  can  flame, 
When  proud  where  the  waters  of  Shannon  are  flowing 

Her  groves  and  her  temples  re-echo  his  name. 

*  The  allusion  is  to  the  great  poet  of  McCuUough's  native  land, 
Thomas  Moore. 


34  3!o&n  ai9f€uHou0{), 


3- 

Float  softly  o'er  shamrocks,  and  bluebells,  and  roses, 
Blend  all  their  gay  tints  and  their  odors  in  one ; 

And  sweet  as  the  zephyr  in  twilight  that  closes 
Be  the  kiss  of  thy  love  on  the  brows  of  thy  son  ! 

4- 

Breathe  tenderly  o'er  us,  who  cluster  around  him, 
In  this,  his  glad  moment  of  triumph  and  pride  : 

Deep,  deep  in  our  souls  are  the  ties  that  have  bound 
him, 
And  life  will  be  lone  with  his  presence  denied. 

5- 

From  the  arms  of  the  mother,  in  childhood  a  rover, 
To  exile  he  came,  on  the  wanderer's  shore : 

To  the  arms  of  the  mother,  his  trials  all  over. 

And  honored  and  laurelled,  we  yield  him  once  more. 

6. 

Speak  low  of  affection  that  longs  to  embrace  him. 
Speak  loud  of  the  fame  that  awaits  him  afar  — 

When  homage  shall  hail  him,  and  beauty  shall  grace 
him. 
And  pomp  hang  her  wreaths  on  the  conqueror's  car  ! 

7. 

When  the  shadows  of  time  at  his  touch  fall  asunder. 
And  heroes  and  demi-gods  leap  into  light ; 

When  the  accents  of  Brutus  ring  wild  in  the  thunder. 
And  the  white  locks  of  Lear  toss  like  sea-foam  in  night ; 


Sloljn  ^t€\M0UQ^.  35 


8. 

When  the  grief  of  the  Moor,  Hke  a  tempest  that  dashes 
On  crags  in  mid-ocean,  has  died  into  rest ; 

When  the  heart  of  Virginius  breaks,  o'er  the  ashes 
Of  her  who  was  sweetest,  and  purest,  and  best ; 

9- 

How  proudly,  how  gladly  their  praise  will  caress  him  ! 

How  brightly  the  jewels  will  blaze  in  his  crown  ! 
How  the  white  hands  of  honor  will  greet  him   and   bless 
him 

With  lilies  and  roses  of  perfect  renown  ! 

lo. 

Ah,  grand  is  the  flight  of  the  eagle  of  morning, 
While  the  dark  world  beneath  him  drifts  into  the  deep  ; 

But  cold  as  the  snow-wreaths  the  mountains  adorning 
Is  the  light  that  illumines  his  desolate  sweep. 

II. 

When  the  trumpets  are  blown   and   the   standards  are 
streaming, 

And  the  festal  lamps  beam  on  the  royal  array, 
How  oft  will  the  heart  of  the  monarch  be  dreaming 

Of  the  home  and  the  friends  that  are  far,  far  away  ! 

12, 

There 's  a  pulse  in  his  breast  that  would  always  regret  us  — 
It  dances  in  laughter,  it  trembles  in  tears  ; 

With  the  world  at  his  feet  he  would  never  forget  us, 
And  our  hearts  would   be   true,  through  an  aeon  of 
years ! 


36 .  3[o|jn  a^€unoiie!)» 


13- 

The  cymbals  may  clash  and  the  gay  pennons  glisten, 
And  the  clangor  of  gladness  ring  jocund  and  free, 

But,  calm  in  the  tumult,  his  spirit  will  listen 
For  our  whisper  of  love  floating  over  the  sea  : 

14. 

For  the  music  of  tones  that  were  once  so  endearing 
(Like  a  wind  of  the  west  o'er  a  prairie  of  flowers), 

But  that  never  again  will  resound  in  his  hearing. 
Except  through  the  tremulous  sadness  of  ours. 

IS- 

Ah,  manly  and  tender,  thy  deeds  are  thy  praises  ! 

Speed  on  in  thy  grandeur,  all  peerless  and  lone, 
And  greet,  in  old  England,  her  hawthorns  and  daisies, - 

A  spirit  as  gentle  and  bright  as  their  own ! 

16. 

Speed  on,  wheresoever  God's  angel  may  guide  thee  ! 

No  fancy  can  dream  and  no  language  can  tell 
What  faith  and  what  blessings  walk  ever  beside  thee, 

Or  the  depth  of  our  love  as  we  bid  thee  Farewell. 


I 


ORATION. 


• 

By  Henry  Edwards. 

• 

DELIVERED   AT  THE   FUNERAL  OF  JOHN   McCULLOUGH, 

AT  ST.    GEORGE'S   HALL,   PHILADELPHIA, 

NOVEMBER    12,    1885. 

T  has  been  well  and  wisely  said  by  one  of  the  great- 
est of  mankind,  that 

Death  hath  no  tortures  for  a  mind  resolved, 
It  is  as  natural  as  to  be  bom. 


But  though  the  messages  of  the  conqueror  reach  us 
day  by  day ;  though  the  touch  of  his  hand  falls  hour 
by  hour  upon  some  familiar  form ;  though  the  sym- 
bols of  his  presence  are  ever  before  our  gaze, —  it  is 
only  when  we  stand,  as  we  do  to-day,  beside  the  in- 
animate body  of  one  we  loved,  and  wander  in  thought 
over  the  past  years,  strewn  with  gentle  recollections 
of  the  one  who  has  gone  before,  that  we  can  realize 
the  power  of  the  destroyer,  or  appreciate  the  unerring 


38  3[o|)n  Si^CuHougi^, 


certainty  of  that  stroke  which  must  eventually  be  dealt 
to  all  by  the  "reaper,  whose  name  is  Death."     We 
come  together  to-day  to  look  our  last  upon  the  features 
of  a  cherished  friend,  of  a  friend  who  had  no  enemy  in 
his  life,  and  who  goes  to  his  last  sleep  blessed  by  the 
prayers   and  the   tears  of  thousands.     We  come  to 
offer  our  homage  to  his  genius,  to  pay  our  earnest 
tribute  of  respect  to  the  worth  and  grandeur  of  his 
character.     We  come  to  testify  to  the  love  we  bore 
him,  to  recall  the  memories  of  his  many  kindnesses,  and 
to  bear  him  with  tender  hands  and  loving  hearts,  hearts 
bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  an  affectionate  sorrow, 
to  his  final  worldly  home.     It  has  been  thought  well 
that  a  few  words  might  be  said  on  this  occasion  by 
one  associated  professionally  with  him,  and  though 
there  are  many  better  fitted  than  myself  to  perform 
this  task,  there  are  few  who  have  had  wider  opportuni- 
ties of  knowing  the  intricacies  of  his  nature,  and  of 
observing  the  growth  of  his  mind ;  and  surely  none 
who  more  valued  and  admired  him  for  his  unflinching 
heroism,  for  the  unstinted  devotion  which  he  displayed 
toward  his  chosen  calling,  or  for  the  unbounded  and 
unselfish  generosity  which  marked  his  life. 

Twenty  years  have  nearly  passed  since,  upon  the 
far-off  shores  of  the  Pacific,  I  first  met  John  McCul- 
lough.  He  was  then  just  concluding,  in  San  Francisco, 
an  engagement  with  his  great  preceptor  and  friend  Ed- 
win Forrest — an  engagement  doomed  to  be  the  last 
they  should  ever  play  together.  He  had  already  made 
for  himself  a  name,  being  regarded  as  one  of  the  young 


3[o||n  a^cCulloiiglfj*  39 


tragedians  who  had  before  him  a  bright  and  glowing 
future,  and  the  kind-hearted  people  among  whom  his 
lot  was  then  cast,  holding  their  arms  open  to  the  aspir- 
ing artist,  took  him  to  their  hearts  as  their  proteg^  and 
friend,  and  induced  him  to  make  their  city  his  home. 
For  nearly  nine  years  he  lived  amongst  them,  and 
though  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  allude  at  length  to  his 
career,  as  that  has  been  already  sketched  in  the  fullest 
manner  by  the  journals  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  I  feel  myself  compelled  to  touch 
briefly  upon  his  management  of  the  California  Theater, 
where,  in  conjunction  with  Lawrence  Barrett,  he  inaug- 
urated an  era  of  theatrical  representations  second  to 
none  which  have  been  given  in  his  time,  and  raised 
the  drama  on  the  Pacific  coast  to  a  condition  which  it 
had  never  before  known,  and  which  may  fitly  be  called 
its  "  Golden  Age."  If  the  names  of  the  company  which 
he  selected  be  written  now,  there  will  be  found  among 
them  those  of  most  of  the  eminent  actors  and  actresses 
of  to-day,  who,  graduating  from  that  admirable  school, 
have  since  fought  their  way  to  the  highest  places  of 
their  profession.  It  was  toward  the  more  legitimate 
drama  that  our  friend's  tastes  and  inclinations  always  di- 
rected him,  and  the  productions  of"  Coriolanus,"  "  Julius 
Caesar,"  "  Hamlet,"  "  Cymbeline,"and  others,  were  such 
as  have  rarely  been  equaled  upon  the  English-speak- 
ing stage.  He  was  the  means,  also,  of  drawing  toward 
a  then  little  known  region  the  more  prominent  actors 
of  the  country,  and  displayed  throughout  his  manage- 
ment an  enterprise  and  liberality  as  honorable  as  they 


40  5[o8n  09c€ullougj). 


are  rare.  There  is  not  an  artist  to-day  who  played  in 
the  California  Theater  when  it  was  under  McCullough's 
direction  but  will  bear  ample  testimony  to  the  almost 
lavish  generosity  which  characterized  his  mounting 
of  their  plays,  to  the  care  with  which  all  matters  of 
business  outside  of  the  theater  walls  were  watched  and 
tended,  to  the  great  excellence  of  the  supporting  com- 
pany, and,  more  than  all,  to  the  atmosphere  of  thoughtful 
kindness  which  pervaded  the  place  and  made  every 
one  who  came  within  its  influence  experience  the  calm 
comforts  of  a  home. 

I  know  well  that  it  is  somewhat  the  fashion  to  decry 
actors  as  men  of  business,  and  in  this  regard  our  poor 
friend  has  not  escaped ;  but  the  amount  of  thought 
and  skill  required  to  work  to  perfection  the  machinery 
of  a  theater  needs  to  be  great  indeed,  and  to  find  a 
man  competent  in  every  department  is  almost  impos- 
sible ;  but  in  all  that  pertains  to  the  absolute  knowledge 
of  the  stage  and  its  own  particular  requirements  John 
McCullough  was  thoroughly  at  home,  and  had  he  not 
been  a  great  actor  he  would  by  the  force  of  his  love 
for  his  profession  have  made  an  admirable  manager. 
It  is  true  that  he  disliked  the  position,  but  that  by  no 
means  interfered  with  his  capacity  for  filling  it ;  and 
perhaps  few  men  ever  lived  who  possessed  in  so  great 
a  degree  the  rare  and  valuable  quality  of  smoothing 
down  differences,  and  of  making  the  rough  paths  of 
labor  bright  and  pleasant  for  those  who  had  to  tread 
them.  By  his  own  personal  magnetism  he  drew  not 
only  the  warmest  interest  but  the  affection  of  his  peo- 


5[o{)n  a^cCunoiigfj*  41 


pie  toward  him,  and  they  felt  that  the  success  of  their 
leader  was  as  dear  to  them  as  their  own.  A  harsh  word, 
even  among  the  many  tempers  and  dispositions  with 
which  he  had  to  contend,  seldom  escaped  his  lips, 
and  if  it  were  ever  uttered  it  was  regretted  as  soon  as 
said.  No  one  ever  approached  him  in  a  good  cause 
without  finding  an  attentive  and  sympathetic  listener, 
and  the  instances  are  not  few  in  which  his  own  interest 
was  freely  sacrificed  for  the  benefit  of  others.  Truly 
may  it  be  said  of  him  that  he  had  ever 

A  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
Open  as  day  for  melting  charity. 

To  every  worthy  purpose  his  professional  services  and 
his  theater  were  freely  given,  and  the  amounts  yearly 
bestowed  in  aiding  misfortune  and  succoring  distress 
were  such  as  to  reduce  sometimes  to  a  very  small  sum 
the  profits  of  the  season.  But  he  seemed  to  hold  his 
position  in  trust  for  the  good  of  his  fellows,  and  to 
experience  to  the  very  full  that  "  it  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive." 

Another  remarkable  feature  of  his  nature  was  his 
uniform  evenness  of  temper.  Whether  shadowed  by 
misfortune,  tortured  by  sickness,  or  hampered  by  the 
cares  of  a  busy  life,  he  had  always  the  same  gentle 
smile,  the  same  friendly  grasp,  the  same  warm  and 
welcoming  words.  No  change  of  condition  ever 
affected  his  character,  and  whether  as  the  struggling 
man  looking  longingly,  yet  half  despairingly,  toward 


42  3[o{jn  St^cCuUougfj. 


the  goal  which  he  hoped  one  day  to  win,  or  the  dis- 
tinguished actor,  worshiped  by  admiring  crowds,  the 
end  of  his  ambition  attained,  and  the  rewards  which 
attend  successful  endeavor  strewn  before  his  steps,  he 
was  still  the  same  genial  friend,  the  same  warm-hearted 
companion,  the  same  kind  and  friendly  associate  as  of 
old.  Who  is  there  amongst  us  that  has  had  the  privi- 
lege of  his  friendship  that  has  not  known  this  of  him  ? 
Who  is  there  that  will  not  bear  witness  to  some  single- 
hearted,  unselfish,  generous  deed,  some  kindly  thought 
that  cannot  be  forgotten  ?  Throughout  our  long 
companionship  I  can  recall  no  mean  or  paltry  act,  no 
shrinking  from  the  duties  of  his  life,  no  neglect  or  for- 
getfulness  of  the  friend  who  ever  served  or  aided  him ; 
and  on  the  other  hand  I  do  remember  hundreds  of 
good  deeds  done  by  stealth,  hundreds  of  noble  actions 
performed  in  silence,  and  made  the  purer  and  the 
brighter  because  of  the  secrecy  by  which  they  were 
surrounded.  And,  as  it  was  remarked  on  a  somewhat 
similar  occasion  to  this  by  one  of  the  greatest  orators 
of  America,  "  If  every  one  to  whom  he  did  a  loving 
service  were  to  carry  a  blossom  to  his  grave  he  would 
sleep  to-night  beneath  a  wilderness  of  flowers." 

Who  does  not  recollect,  too,  the  singular  influence 
of  his  sunny  nature,  the  laugh  that  sparkled  in  his  eye, 
the  fun  that  bubbled  upon  his  lip,  the  merry  tales  that 
sometimes  "  kept  the  table  on  a  roar,"  or  the  joyous 
humor  with  which  he  touched  the  eccentricities  of  his 
comrades,  or  told  characteristic  anecdotes  of  those  by 
whom  he  had  been  surrounded  ?     No  one  more  than 


3Io|)n  ar^cCunoiigifj*  43 


himself  could  appreciate  the  disadvantages  of  his  early 
life,  and  the  honest  industry  by  which  he  rose  out  of 
the  position  in  which  fortune  had  placed  him  and 
struggled  to  obtain  the  knowledge  fitting  him  for  that 
to  which  he  aspired  is  as  worthy  of  admiration  as  of 
praise.  The  fund  of  information  which  he  had  gath- 
ered was  wonderful  in  its  range  of  subjects,  and  upon 
all  matters  connected  with  his  profession  he  spoke 
with  power  and  authority.  Always  a  good  listener,  he 
knew  well  when  the  right  word  should  be  said,  and 
when  spoken,  it  was  with  clearness,  force,  and  dignity. 
He  marked  out  a  path  for  himself,  and,  heedless  of 
obstacles,  he  trod  it  to  the  end.  He  swept  aside  the 
obstructions  before  him,  and  by  the  force  of  sheer 
determination  and  energy  he  marched  like  a  con- 
queror to  his  throne.  But  he  knew  no  petty  jealousies, 
and  the  leaves  from  his  laurel  crown  were  freely  dis- 
tributed among  his  younger  and  less  eminent  brethren, 
whom  he  was  ever  ready  to  aid  by  his  advice  and  ex- 
perience, with  whose  struggles  he  sympathized,  because 
they  resembled  those  of  his  own  early  days.  And  be- 
yond this,  so  open-hearted  and  so  singularly  gener- 
ous was  his  character  that  he  excited  no  jealousy  in 
others,  but  every  step  on  his  upward  path  was  regarded 
with  honest  pride  and  rejoicing  by  his  comrades,  who 
joyed  in  all  that  elevated  him,  and  who  loving  him 
with  more  than  brothers'  affection  regarded  his  tri- 
umphs as  their  own.  No  man  ever  collected  around 
him  a  greater  host  of  friends  than  he  did,  and  no  man 
will  linger  longer  in  the  sweetest  memories  of  their 


44  9Io|)n  !3t9c€unouglj. 


souls  than  John  McCullough.  The  great  concourse 
assembled  here  to-day  is  a  distinct  evidence  of  the 
estimation  in  which  he  was  publicly  held,  and  I  speak 
with  certainty  when  I  say  that  could  he  have  chosen 
the  place  in  which  he  would  prefer  to  "  look  his  last 
of  earth  and  sky,"  it  would  have  been  this  very  city  of 
Philadelphia,  a  city  which  he  always  loved  so  well,  and 
in  which  he  first  began  to  mount  the  ladder  of  his 
fame.  It  seems  to  have  been  in  the  very  fitness  of 
things  that  after  his  years  of  toil  and  struggle,  when 
struck  down  in  the  strength  of  his  manhood  by  the 
disease  which  mastered  him,  he  should  be  permitted 

Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

And  I  may  be  allowed  here  to  remark  that  his  brilliant 
friend  and  teacher,  Edwin  Forrest,  and  his  beloved 
companion,  Edwin  Adams,  also  died  in  this  city,  and 
yielded  up  their  breath  on  the  same  day  of  the  week 
as  that  which  witnessed  the  departure  of  our  friend. 
But,  alas!  that  such  a  man  should  so  soon  in  the 
pride  of  his  career  become  but  a  memory,  and  that  he 
should  have  been  called  so  early  away,  not  only  from 
the  stage  which  he  adorned  and  elevated,  but  from 
the  wider  stage  of  a  life  which  had  so  much  of  prom- 
ise and  so  rich  a  harvest  of  fame  and  fortune  yet  to  be 
reaped  and  gathered.  "  To  our  dim  vision  all  seems 
hard  and  strange,"  —  the  mysteries  of  this  life  of  ours 
are  beyond  our  ken;  but  as  we  sometimes  stand  upon 
the  seashore,  and  look  with  longing  eyes  upon  the  seem- 


3[oJ)n  0^Cuilougf)»  45 


ingly  limitless  waste,  wondering  at  the  nature  of  the 
countries  that  lie  beyond,  so  may  we  stand  in  the 
presence  of  death,  and,  crossing  by  our  inner  self  the 
great  dividing  line  between  life  and  immortality,  gaze 
with  speculative  sight  across  the  mysterious  river,  and 
behold  the  forms  of  those  who  are  "  not  lost  but  gone 
before." 

And  in  such  moments  of  peaceful  contemplation  can 
we  not  see  our  friend  again  before  us,  smiling  on  us 
with  a  holy  smile,  and  bidding  us  be  comforted,  giving 
us  the  assurance  that  he  is  still  near  us,  shedding  a 
peaceful  influence  about  our  hfe,  and  telling  us  that 
"  souls  once  united  in  the  bonds  of  love  can  never  be 
dissevered,  and  the  universe  still  held  together  by  the 
same  great  power  must  perish  before  this  divine  ordi- 
nance can  be  broken." 

He  has  left  an  example  to  imitate  and  follow — an 
example  of  earnest  energy  and  perseverance;  an  ex- 
ample of  a  noble,  generous,  and  manly  character ;  an 
example  of  patience  under  difficulties  rarely  met  with 
in  life,  and  an  example  of  as  honest  and  tender  a  soul 
as  ever  blessed  our  earthly  pilgrimage,  and  made  us 
thankful  that  such  as  he  can  come  within  the  orbit  of 
our  lives.  Farewell,  then,  gentle  friend,  faithful  com- 
rade, loving  brother,  fare  you  well!  We  part  from 
you  with  sadness  in  our  souls;  but  as  through  our  tear- 
filled  eyes  we  look  our  last  on  your  familiar  features, 
we  bless  the  Father  that  He  has  shortened  your  suffer- 
ings on  earth,  and  we  pray  your  happiness  in  your 
eternal  home,  whither  the  youngest  and  bravest  of  us 


46  3|o{)n  St^fCuHouglj. 


soon  shall  follow  you !  The  flowers  which  adorn  your 
coffin  are  emblems  of  the  purity  of  that  affection  which 
will  accompany  you  to  your  grave,  which,  unlike  them, 
can  never  fade,  but  in  the  long  years  to  come  will 
"  keep  your  memory  green."  And  though  we  would 
have  kept  you  with  us  for  a  longer  space,  we  murmur 
not  at  a  higher  and  wiser  decree  than  any  we  can 
utter,  and  with  our  souls  swelling  with  love  and  tender- 
ness for  you,  old  friend,  we  will  endeavor  to  comfort 
your  sorrowing  one  with  the  trusting  thought  that 
"It  is  well." 


The  pall-bearers  at  McCullough's  funeral  were :  William  J. 
Florence,  John  B.  Carson,  W.  H.  Thomson,  William  M.  Conner, 
William  F.  Johnson,  Joseph  Jefferson,  M.  W.  Canning,  William 
Winter,  Henry  Edwards,  J.  W.  Collier,  and  John  A.  Cockerill. 


r 


THE   McCULLOUGH    MONUMENT. 


RECORD  OF  EXERCISES  AT   ITS   DEDICATION, 
NOVEMBER   27,    1888. 


A  SHORT  time  after  the  death  of  John  McCul- 
lough  it  was  suggested  by  his  friend  WiUiam  M. 
Conner  that  a  monument  should  be  erected  at  his 
grave :  such  a  monument  as  might  perpetuate  his  hon- 
ored name,  transmitting  it  to  future  times  and  indicating 
to  future  generations  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held 
by  his  contemporaries.  The  project  was  first  men- 
tioned by  Mr.  Conner  in  conversation  with  W.  J. 
Florence,  the  comedian,  —  another  of  McCuUough's 
comrades, —  and  it  was  then  communicated  to  Mr.  John 
Mackay,  Mr.  John  B.  Carson,  Mr.  W.  H.  Thomson, 
Mr.  Steele  Mackaye,  Mr,  William  Winter,  and  other 
old  friends  of  the  actor,  by  all  of  whom  it  was  eagerly 
approved  and  supported.  No  formal  appeal  was 
made  to  the  public.  Mr.  Conner  only  authorized  an 
intimation,  to  persons  whom  it  was  thought  would  feel 


48  3[oljn  <ir^c€unougt)» 


an  interest  in  the  subject,  that  a  plan  had  been  formed 
for  accomphshing  this  commemorative  tribute.  The 
idea  met  with  cordial  sympathy,  and  the  practical 
response  of  men  who  had  stood  near  to  the  great 
actor  in  life,  and  who  **  knew  him  but  to  love  him," 
was  immediate  and  substantial.  Mr.  Conner, — by 
whom  the  essential  labor  for  the  accomplishment  of 
this  project  was  from  first  to  last  performed  with 
devoted  zeal  and  wise  and  kindly  energy, — was  soon 
enabled  to  organize  a  committee  and  to  insure  the 
choice  of  sculptor  and  design.  The  election  fell 
on  Mr.  WiUiam  Clark  Noble,  of  Newport,  R.  I.,  and 
Mr.  John  Lackme,  of  Philadelphia, —  the  former  a 
young  statuary  of  marked  ability  and  of  poetic  enthu- 
siasm for  his  subject,  the  latter  an  architect  of  skill, 
experience,  and  recognized  worth.  Their  designs  were 
approved;  their  work  went  forward  with  all  suitable 
celerity,  and  late  in  the  summer  of  1888  the  granite 
monument,  with  a  massive  and  splendid  bronze  bust 
of  John  McCuUough,  was  placed  at  the  actor's  grave, 
in  Mount  Moriah  Cemetery,  near  Philadelphia,  The 
formal  dedication  of  it  occurred  on  November  27, 1888. 
The  McCullough  monument  stands  at  the  head  of 
the  grave,  over  which  the  bust  of  the  actor,  in  his 
favorite  character  of  Virginius,  seems  an  image  of  per- 
fect and  noble  repose,  as  calm  and  majestic  as  the  day 
that  it  greets  at  its  coming.  The  main  fabric  of  the 
monument,  imposed  upon  a  commodious  pedestal,  is 
a  huge  block  of  polished  granite.  On  this  are  reared 
four  pillars,  which  support  a  stone  canopy  surmounted 


gjoijn  a^cCunougfj.  49 


by  an  urn.  Beneath  the  canopy  stands  the  bust, 
which  is  of  colossal  size.  The  pillars  are  sculptured  with 
vines  of  ivy.  The  top  of  the  urn  is  thirty-six  feet  from 
the  ground.  On  the  east  side  of  the  main  shaft 
appear  the  sculptured  masks  of  Tragedy  and  Comedy, 
together  with  ideal  faces  of  Roman  actors.  On  the 
north  side  are  cut  the  expressive  lines  from  "  Julius 
Caesar," 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  " This  was  a  man." 

On  the  south  side  may  be  read  these  lines,  taken  from 
a  poem  by  John  G.  Whittier,  tributary  to  his  Quaker 
friend  Joseph  Sturge : 

Tender  as  woman,  manliness,  and  meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength  or  weakness 

Saw  but  a  single  side. 

On  the  west  side  the  inscription  makes  this  record : 

erected  to  the  memory  of  the 
Eminent  Tragedian,  John  McCullough, 

BY   HIS   FRIENDS  : 

John  W.  Mackay,  William  J.  Florence, 

Mary  Anderson, 
William  M.  Conner,      W.  H.  Thomson, 
John  B.  Carson,  W.  F.  Johnson, 

AND  OTHERS. 


50  g[oljn  sr9c<^ufioug|j» 


The  scene  at  McCullough's  grave  when  his  monu- 
ment was  dedicated  lacked  no  element  of  impressive 
simplicity.     The  day  was  somber  and  chill.     A  sad, 
gray  sky  brooded,  as  if  in  sorrow,  over  the  still  and 
melancholy  landscape  —  of  withered  lawn  and  leafless 
trees,  with,  all  around,  the  cold  memorials  of  the  dead. 
It  was  one  of  those  pensive,  soundless  days  when 
Nature  seems  to  sympathize  with  the  grief,  the  per- 
plexities, the  wistful  anxiety  of  man.     There  was  a 
numerous  company  in  the  burial-ground  —  not  only 
residents  of  Philadelphia  but  friends  from  cities  as  re- 
mote as  Boston  and  Chicago.     A  special  train  from 
New  York   had  brought  many  of  McCullough's  old 
comrades  and   many  interested   spectators.     Among 
these  pilgrims  of  friendship  were  Rudolph  Aronson,  J. 
H.  Barnes,  C.  W.  Brooke,  Colonel  W.  Brown,  Judge 
Bregy,  A.  J.  Bates,   J.  W.  CoUier,  W.   M.    Conner, 
Mrs.  Conner,  Miss  Mignon  Conner,  G.  F.  Coes,  J. 
Cunningham,  John    Courtney,   George    Davis,  J.   J. 
Dougherty,  Henry  Enoch,  F.  H.  Gould,  E.  G.  Gil- 
more,  Laurence   Hutton,   Mrs.    Rees    Haskett,  Rev. 
Robert  Hunter,  Dr.  W.  F.  Hartley,  David  Hayman, 
Frederick  Helm,  Matthew  Jackson,  W.  F.  Johnson, 
J.  F.  Kelly,  John  A.  Lane,  J.  H.  Lane,  E.  A.  McFar- 
land,  James  H.  Meade,  Frank  Moran,  Steele  Mackaye, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  McCullough,  Miss  Letitia  Mc- 
CuUough,  W.   H.   Maxwell,  M.  J.   O'Brien,  William 
Ottman,  Miss  Clara  Poole,  J.  B.  Roberts,  Locke  Rich- 
ardson, W.  S.  Rising,  Richard  Stockton,  Miss  Jenny 
Saunderson,  Henry  Scheetz,  Luke  Schoolcraft,  S.  S. 


3|ofjn  a^cCunmiglj,  51 


Sandford,  Eugene  Tompkins,  Alexander  Taylor,  Jr., 
S.  J.  Todd,  Barry  Wall,  B.  Warburton,  William  Win- 
ter, Joseph  Wood,  and  Mrs.  Jane  Wirt.  A  delegation 
was  in  attendance  from  the  Philadelphia  Lodge  of  the 
Benevolent  and  Protective  Order  of  Elks.  The  orator 
of  the  day,  Steele  Mackaye,  and  the  poet,  William 
Winter,  came  over  from  New  York.  A  temporary 
stage  had  been  erected  at  the  south-west  corner  of  the 
burial  lot  of  McCullough  and  his  family,  and  upon  this 
the  officers  and  speakers  of  the  occasion  took  their 
places.  Many  ladies,  including  Mrs.  Jane  Wirt,  of 
Dunmore,  Pa.,  the  only  surviving  sister  of  the  actor, 
Miss  Letitia  McCullough,  his  granddaughter,  Mrs. 
Conner,  and  Mrs.  Haskett,  occupied  seats  at  the  foot 
of  the  monument.  Solemn  music,  by  way  of  prelude, 
and  also  at  intervals  during  the  exercises,  was  per- 
formed by  Simon  Hassler's  band,  and  at  2  o'clock  p.  m. 
Mr.  W.  F.  Johnson,  as  presiding  officer,  and  as  the 
life-long  friend  of  John  McCullough,  made  the  cere- 
monial speech,  and  unveiled  the  bust  of  the  loved  and 
lamented  actor. 


INTRODUCTORY   ADDRESS. 

• 

By  William  F.  Johnson. 

• 

MY  FRIENDS:  There  is  an  hour  when  we  are 
called  upon  to  mourn  the  loss  of  one  dear  to  us ; 
there  is  an  hour  when  grief  is  soothed  and  we  feel  that 
our  tears  were  not  in  vain.  The  consolation  that  Na- 
ture brings  is  the  compensation  for  our  sorrow.  We 
are  not  here  to-day  to  mourn, —  for  mourning  cannot 
give  us  back  our  friend, —  but  rather  for  exultation 
that  his  memory  lives  with  us,  green  with  the  remem- 
brance of  his  great  charity,  his  sweetness  of  tempera- 
ment, and  his  glorious  geniality.  Heroes  have  had 
their  last  resting-places  marked  with  imperishable  mar- 
ble, in  admiration  of  their  power  to  slaughter  men 
and  wreak  misery  upon  their  fellow-creatures ;  poets 
for  the  sweetness  of  their  songs ;  rulers  for  their  excel- 
lence in  statecraft;  but  few  are  honored,  as  our  dead 
friend  is  to-day,  for  personal  worth,  unostentatious  char- 
ities, and  a  beneficent  life. 


g[olSin  sr^cCullouglj*  53 


Every  American  citizen  can  unite  in  this  loving 
remembrance.  The  Ufe  of  our  friend  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  possibiHties  of  our  civihzation.  A  poor, 
lone,  penniless,  and  uneducated  emigrant,  from  the 
green  isle  that  has  given  so  much  to  the  world,  he 
arose,  by  his  genius  and  the  capabilities  of  our  institu- 
tions, to  be  a  man  of  culture  and  intellectual  force,  the 
associate  of  judges  and  senators  and  the  advanced  in 
culture  of  our  land ;  and  when  he  passed  away  he  left 
a  void,  as  the  last  and  not  the  least  of  a  long  line  of 
delineators  of  the  romantic  and  heroic  characters  of 
poetry. 

The  story  of  his  life  has  been  told,  but  the  loving 
devotion  of  his  friends  can  never  be  written. 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  "  This  was  a  man.  " 

So  has  it  been  carved  upon  this  structure,  that  those 
who  are  to  come  may  know  the  esteem  in  which  he 
was  held  in  life.  He  had  his  superficial  faults.  To 
be  more  than  human  is  not  to  be  of  humanity.  But 
in  gentleness,  sweetness  of  temper,  self-abnegation,  and 
broad  and  open-hearted  charity  we  may  never  know 
his  equal. 

As  a  friend  of  his  early  life  and  of  his  mature  years  — 
a  friendship  that  was  never  broken  by  time  nor  dimmed 
by  absence  —  I  have  been  asked  to  withdraw  the  cur- 
tain that  will  reveal  his  effigy,  placed  here  in  enduring 
bronze. 


54  9[ol)n  sr^CuHougfj. 


It  is  with  affectionate  remembrance  of  my  friend 
that  I  do  this,  and  a  trust  that  it  will  in  future  years  be 
considered  not  only  the  memorial  of  a  great  man,  but 
a  lesson  that  the  remembrance  of  good  deeds,  charity, 
and  affection  endures  forever. 


It  had  been  expected  and  purposed  that  Mr,  Conner 
should  address  the  assembly  at  the  grave  of  his  friend, 
but  he  was  suffering  with  severe  illness  and  unable  to 
speak.  He  acknowledged,  however,  with  evident 
emotion,  an  enthusiastic  tribute  of  applause  from  the 
spectators  of  this  memorable  ceremonial,  and  in  this 
manner  he  introduced  the  orator  of  the  day. 


ORATION. 

• 

By  Steele  Mackaye. 

• 

LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN:  I  regard  this  as 
a  moment  to  be  greeted  by  us  without  other 
tears  than  those  bom  of  the  deep  content  of  gratified 
love.  While  there  is  a  profound  solemnity  about  this 
occasion,  it  nevertheless  should  have,  for  those  here 
present,  no  savor  of  sorrow  or  of  pain.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  the  whole  history  of  the  profession  which  this 
noble  sleeper  served,  there  has  never  occurred  an 
episode  freighted  with  greater  encouragement  to  his 
co-workers  than  this  which  we  enjoy  here  to-day,  for  it 
demonstrates  the  lasting  hold  that  true  manhood  can 
obtain,  through  loyal  service  on  the  stage,  upon  the 
affectionate  remembrance  of  our  race. 

For  the  first  time  a  monument  has  been  raised,  not 
as  a  private  ceremonial  but  as  a  public  commemoration, 
over  the  grave  of  an  American  actor.  This  monument 
apart  from  the  charm  diffused  by  its  intrinsic  beauty, 
performs  three  functions,  invaluable  to  those  interested 
in  honest  art  and  right  living :  First,  As  a  tribute  to 


56  3[o!)n  ai^CuIlougl), 


an  actor  it  asserts  the  worth  and  dignity  of  histrionic 
endeavor.  Secondly,  It  emphasizes  the  sterUng  quaUty 
of  the  man  who  rests  beneath  it.  Thirdly,  It  cele- 
brates the  glorious  and  permanent  force  of  hmnan 
friendship.  Never  before  in  this  country  has  a  votary 
of  the  theater  received  such  a  testimonial  —  declaring 
the  love  that  outlives  death  —  as  this  statue  just  un- 
veiled and  this  assemblage  from  widely  separated 
cities,  of  hearts  that  are  strong  in  memory  because  they 
were  always  firm  in  affection. 

If  we  inquire  into  the  causes  of  this  unique  occasion 
we  shall  discern  much  to  encourage  our  faith  in  that 
human  nature  which  cynics  are  so  prone  to  despise. 
When  the  band  of  faithful  souls  assembled  here  have 
"passed  through  Nature  to  eternity," — into  that  freer 
and  deeper  communion  of  spirit  which  awaits  us  beyond 
the  silence  of  the  grave, — our  children  and  children's 
children  will  pause  to  gaze  upon  the  massive  manliness 
of  this  heroic  head,  and  to  ask  why  he  only  of  the 
illustrious  dead  of  his  great  art  was  selected  to  survive, 
in  bronze,  the  crumbling  memories  of  the  fellows  of  his 
craft.  Was  it  because  he  was  greater  or  more  skillful 
in  his  art  than  those  who  passed  before  him  to  the 
tomb?  No!  Few  would  care  to  press  such  a  claim 
for  the  man  whose  spirit  gave  life  to  the  ashes  in  this 
grave.  Why,  then,  has  he  been  singled  out  for  this 
distinction  ? 

Because  he  played  his  part  with  such  simj^licity  in 
life,  and  such  unpretentious  patience  in  art,  that 
death,  with  all  its  dread  omnipotence,  could  not  de- 
stroy the  remembrance  of  his  winsome  and  achieving 


giojjn  a^cCuHoiigfi.  57 


will.  His  story  accentuates  the  beneficent  possibilities 
of  the  land  of  freedom,  in  which  he  proved  that  his  rank 
was  due  to  naught  but  nature,  endeavor,  and  personal 
achievement.  His  origin  was  as  lowly  as  the  effort 
of  his  life  was  lofty.  Without  the  advantages  of  edu- 
cation, wealth,  and  social  position  he  won  them  all 
through  countless  and  trying  vicissitudes ;  won  them 
simply  by  the  iron  force  of  dauntless  detennination 
and  the  unflagging  energy  of  an  aspiring  mind. 
Through  his  unflinching  firmness  in  the  fight  of  life, 
however,  he  bore  within  his  breast  an  inexhaustible 
spring  of  "  the  milk  of  human  kindness."  He  pos- 
sessed that  dignity  and  graciousness  of  manner  which 
denotes  a  nature  of  the  noblest  rank.  He  won  all 
hearts,  and  the  secret  of  his  sway,  among  all  classes,  was 
his  unchanging  truth  and  incorruptible  integrity.  He 
was  unfalteringly  true — true  to  his  friend,  fair  to  his 
foe,  and  faithful  to  the  highest  aims  of  his  art.  From 
such  a  record  no  wonder  such  an  expression  of  respect 
as  this  should  spring ! 

And  yet  I  have  seen  the  oblique  eye  of  envy  cast 
upon  this  grave;  have  heard  McCullough's  title  to  this 
triumph  questioned  in  the  contemning  tone  that  tells 
the  jealous  heart.  If  any  in  the  future  should  echo 
the  cavil  of  these  petty  minds,  let  them  be  reminded 
how  single  and  distinct  John  McCullough's  stand  was 
toward  his  associates  of  the  stage.  While  most  of  those 
his  day  saw  crowned  with  laurels  —  actors  who,  with- 
out the  glorifying  glamor  of  the  stage,  would  have 
lived  unnoticed  and  been  buried  in  forgotten  graves 
—  while,  I  say,  the  favored  few  of  his  profession  held 


s8  gjojjn  a^cCufiougf), 


themselves  haughtily  aloof  from  social  contact  with  the 
comrades  whose  cooperation  enabled  them  to  win  their 
way,  the  unsullied  manliness  of  this  true  gentleman 
moved  through  the  world  untainted  by  envy,  hauteur, 
or  self-conceit.  He  bore  himself  equally  with  defer- 
ence and  courtesy  toward  the  poor  and  unrecognized 
and  with  simple  dignity  toward  the  high-placed  and 
mighty  of  the  world.  He  met  all  the  brothers  of  his 
guild,  however  humble  the  role  that  fate  assigned,  with 
a  heart  sincere  in  sympathy,  a  head  quick  and  willing 
to  advise,  a  hand  strong  and  ready  to  assist.  This  is 
the  final  reason  for  the  erection  of  this  monument : 
because  the  stainless  integrity  and  sensitive  tenderness 
of  an  unaffected  man  was  blended  with  the  undying 
devotion  of  an  unpretentious  artist  in  the  noble  per- 
sonality of  John  McCullough. 

Friends,  this  moment  is  as  weighty  with  worth  as  it 
is  rare  in  occurrence.  We  are  not  likely  to  know  an- 
other such  as  this  in  our  generation.  It  becomes  us, 
therefore,  to  consider  to  whom  our  profession  is  most 
indebted  for  this  precious  experience.  The  man  who 
in  life  was  the  guide,  the  trusted  confidant,  the  stead- 
fast friend,  of  John  McCullough, — the  friend  who  did 
most  of  the  practical  work  in  assisting  him  to  attain 
success,  —  was  equally  energetic,  faithful,  and  efficient 
in  service  to  this  artist  after  he  was  dead.  Though  the 
grave  had  hidden  his  hero  from  sight  he  still  bore  him 
in  mind.  Friendship  did  not  falter,  devotion  did  not 
relax;  but  with  patient  and  tireless  toil  this  loving 
comrade  refused  to  rest  until  the  great  actor  whom  he 


3[olSjn  a^cCuilougf)*  59 


had  served  when  living  had  attained  to  even  greater 
singleness  of  honor  in  death  than  he  had  ever  enjoyed 
in  life.  That  man  to  whom  the  Dramatic  Profession 
is  in  everlasting  debt  for  the  work  completed  here 
to-day  is  the  twin,  in  sterling  manliness,  of  the  beloved 
spirit  that  once  animated  the  dust  beneath  this  bronze. 
All  honor  then  to  him.  If  dear  John  McCuUough  is 
looking  on  and  Ustening  to  the  words  I  speak  his  soul 
echoes  mine  when  I  say  that  intertwined  with  the 
immortality  of  his  own  name  is  that  of  his  loyal  friend 
William  M.  Conner. 

On  April  4,  1881,  at  a  feast  given  in  honor  of 
McCuUough,  a  poet  (William  Winter),  whose  friend- 
ship he  prized  beyond  expression,  paid  him  the  tribute 
of  a  poem.  The  opening  verse  voices  with  strange 
truth  the  sentiment  of  this  hour  here ;  and  therefore  I 
close  by  taking  this  flower  from  that  gay  garland  to 
lay  now  upon  this  bier : 

Long  hushed  is  the  harp  that  his  glory  had  spoken, 
Long  stilled  is  the  heart  that  could  summon  its  strain ; 

Now  its  cords  are  all  silent,  or  tuneless,  or  broken. 
What  touch  can  awaken  its  music  again  ! 

At  the  close  of  Mr.  Mackaye's  oration  a  dirge  was 
played  by  Hassler's  Band,  and  then  William  Winter 
came  forward  and  delivered  the  following  elegy.  The 
poet  was  one  of  John  McCuUough's  most  intimate 
friends  for  many  years,  and  his  poem  took  naturally 
the  form  of  a  friend's  apostrophe  to  the  silent  image 
of  a  departed  comrade. 


ELEGY. 


By  William  Winter. 


FOR  THE    DEDICATION    OF    THE    MONUMENT    TO    JOHN 
MCCULLOUGH,  IN    MOUNT    MORIAH    CEMETERY, 
PHILADELPHIA,    NOVEMBER    28,    if 


HOW  different  now,  old  friend,  the  meeting  ! 
Thy  form,  thy  face,  thy  look  the  same  — 
But  where  is  now  the  kindly  greeting, 

The  voice  of  cheer,  the  heart  of  flame  ? 
There,  in  thy  grandeur,  calm  and  splendid, — 

God's  peace  on  that  imperial  brow, — 
Thou  standest,  grief  and  trouble  ended, 
And  we  are  nothing  to  thee  now, 

II. 

Yet  once  again  the  air  is  cloven 

With  joyous  tumult  of  acclaim  ; 
Once  more  the  golden  wreaths  are  woven, 

Of  love  and  honor,  for  thy  name  ; 


3[0|)n  a^cCuUouglj*  6i 


And  round  thee  here,  with  tender  longing, 

As  oft  they  did  in  days  of  old, 
The  comrades  of  thy  soul  come  thronging. 

Who  never  knew  thee  stern  or  cold. 


III. 

Why  waits,  in  frozen  silence  sleeping, 

The  smile  that  made  our  hearts  rejoice  ? 
Why,  dead  to  laughing  and  to  weeping. 

Is  hushed  the  music  of  thy  voice? 
By  what  strange  mood  of  reverie  haunted 

Art  thou,  the  gentle,  grown  austere  ? 
And  do  we  hve  in  dreams  enchanted, 

To  know  thee  gone,  yet  think  thee  here  ? 


IV. 

Ah,  fond  pretense  !   ah,  sweet  beguiling  ! 

Too  well  I  know  thy  course  is  run. 
There  's  no  more  grief  and  no  more  smiling 

For  thee  henceforth  beneath  the  sun. 
In  manhood's  noon  thy  summons  found  thee. 

In  glory's  blaze,  on  fortune's  height. 
Trailed  the  black  robe  of  doom  around  thee 

And  veiled  thy  radiant  face  in  night. 

• 

V. 

This  but  the  shadow  of  a  vision 
Our  mourning  souls  alone  can  see, 

That  pierce  through  death  to  realms  elysian. 
More  hallowed  now  because  of  thee. 


62  gfojn  a^cCuHoiisfj, 


Yet,  oh,  what  heart,  with  recollection 
Of  thy  colossal  trance  of  pain. 

Were  now  so  selfish  in  affection 

To  wish  thee  back  from  heaven  again  ! 


VI. 

There  must  be,  in  those  boundless  spaces 

Where  thy  great  spirit  wanders  free, 
Abodes  of  bliss,  enchanted  places, 

That  only  Love's  white  angels  see  ! 
And  sure,  if  heavenly  kindness  showered 

On  every  sufferer  'neath  the  sun 
Shows  any  human  spirit  dowered 

With  love  angelic,  thou  wert  one  I 


VII. 

There  's  no  grand  impulse,  no  revealing 

In  all  the  glorious  world  of  art, 
There's  no  sweet  thought  or  noble  feeling 

That  throbbed  not  in  thy  manly  heart ! 
There  's  no  strong  flight  of  aspiration, 

No  reverent  dream  of  realms  divine. 
No  pulse,  no  thrill,  no  proud  elation 

Of  god-like  power  that  was  not  thine ! 

VIII. 

So  stand  forever,  joyless,  painless. 
Supreme  alike  o'er  smiles  and  tears. 

Thou  true  man's  image,  strong  and  stainless, 
Unchanged  through  all  the  changing  years  ■ 


g[oljn  3r^c€u!loiigf),  63 


While  Fame's  blue  crystal  o'er  thee  bending 
With  honor's  gems  shall  blaze  and  burn, 

And  rose  and  lily,  round  thee  blending, 
Adorn  and  bless  thy  hallowed  urn. 

IX. 

While  summer  days  are  long  and  lonely, 

While  autumn  sunshine  seems  to  weep, 
While  midnight  hours  are  bleak,  and  only 

The  stars  and  clouds  their  vigils  keep. 
All  gentle  things  that  live  shall  moan  thee. 

All  fond  regrets  forever  wake  ; 
For  earth  is  happier  having  known  thee. 

And  heaven  is  sweeter  for  thy  sake. 


The  Manhattan  Quartette  of  the  Actors  Order  of 
Friendship,  consisting  of  Mr.  J.  F.  Davis,  Mr. 
Joseph  Wood,  Mr.  W.  H.  Maxwell,  and  Mr.  J.  J. 
Dougherty,  closed  the  services,  with  several  efforts  of  a 
tender  and  pleasing  vocalism,  aptly  expressive  of  sor- 
row for  the  loss  of  a  beloved  comrade  and  sympathy 
alike  with  the  loneliness  that  deplores  his  absence  and 
the  love  that  honors  his  memory. 

On  the  day  of  these  exercises  the  following  record  of 
the  event  was  made  in  one  of  the  New  York  journals, 
by  the  actor's  friend,  Colonel  John  A.  Cockerill, 
whose  graceful  and  tender  words  may  fitly  close  this 
memorial :  "  To-day  in  a  cemetery  near  Philadelphia 
a  monument  will  be  formally  dedicated  to  the  memory 


64  Sfojn  at^CuHougf)* 


of  John  McCullough,  the  actor.  The  event  recalls  the 
pathetic  story  of  the  poor  boy  who  landed  upon  these 
shores  a  stranger ;  who  lifted  himself  by  earnest  appli- 
cation, sacrifice,  and  study  to  the  very  head  of  the  dra- 
matic profession,  and  who,  '  cheated  by  fortune  of  fair 
hours,'  fell  in  the  very  prime  of  his  manhood  and  the 
fruition  of  his  life-work.  Honors  such  as  came  to  few 
men  were  his.  He  was  of  gentle  spirit,  his  ambitions 
were  lofty,  his  heart  was  ever  filled  with  high  resolves, 
and  he  loved  humanity.  There  was  no  envy  in  his 
soul.  He  loved  his  friends,  and  no  man  ever  lived  who 
attached  people  to  him  as  did  John  McCullough 
Three  years  have  passed  since  he  was  blotted  from 
existence, —  a  long  time  in  this  harsh  world  to  cherish 
a  good  man's  memory, —  and  yet  the  tears  which  will 
bedew  the  eyes  of  those  who  meet  to-day  to  pay  him 
tribute  will  be  as  fresh  as  those  which  were  shed  beside 
his  bier.  To  have  lived  to  write  such  tender  tracings 
upon  the  hearts  of  men  was  to  have  lived  well," 


g^        ^— -gTB 


LIST    OF    SUBSCRIBERS 
TO    THE     McCULLOUGH    MONUMENT. 

Mary  Anderson. 
John  W.  Mackay. 
John  B.  Carson. 
W.  J.  Florence. 
W.  H.  Thomson. 
W.  F.  Johnson. 
William  Winter. 
Steele  Mackaye. 
J.  B,  Houston. 
R.  M.  Taylor. 
John  A.  Cockerill. 
GiRARD  B.  Allen. 
John  W,  Norton. 
Stuart  Robson. 
Richard  Stockton. 
John  A.  Lane. 
Charles  W.  Brooke. 
Beggs  &  Rankin. 
Henry  Edwards. 


66  giotjn  flt^fCuHougli). 


J.  W.  Collier. 
Anhausser  Busch. 
Jesse  Brown. 
Stillson  Hutchins. 
W.  T.  Sherman. 
J.  G.  Blaine. 
J.  L.  Toole. 
Henry  Irving. 
Joseph  Jefferson. 
William  M.  Conner. 


uu. 


$h 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

ll'l  l!!l!  'II  II'  !  Ill  'I'll!  Illl'l    !""l    1 

j  II  I    II  1  II 

AA 

lilUIIIJI IImmUI,,,, 

000  337  223    2 

illlll 

